The Lost King (52 page)

"As you say, my
lord, I know John Dixter," Admiral Aks was adding. "I know
him from the old days. I agree with you, my lord, that he is a good
officer and that he can be trusted. However, I do not think he will
join us. His hatred and defiance of the Republic is well known. It is
not a question of us trusting him, but of him trusting us." Aks
made his speech smoothly; he'd been well coached.

"That is true,
Admiral, and therefore I propose that we send this young man, Dion
Starfire, to act as intermediary. The young man, as you have
witnessed from his impassioned, if ill-timed and ill-mannered
defense, is acquainted with John Dixter and those in his command. He
will inform the mercenaries of our mutual danger and offer them our
proposal of a temporary alliance."

Dions mouth fell open.
He stared at Maigrey, then at Sagan. Maigrey was no help. She would
have liked to tell the young man to refuse, but she had no grounds to
do so, nothing but a vague feeling of disquiet. And we need the
pilots! she reminded herself. We need their planes. Maybe I'm just
being paranoid.

"Of course,"
the Warlord was continuing, "Starfire is a civilian I cannot
order him to undertake this mission, but I would take it as a great
personal favor if he would."

The Warlord smiled, the
dark line of the lips lengthening.

By thy cold breast
and serpent smile
. . . Maigrey shivered.

Flushed with pride,
stammering with confusion, aware of the cool, measured observations
of the officers, Dion rose awkwardly to his feet, his chair scraping
the deck.

"My lord. I—
It would be my honor. What about sending Lady Maigrey with me? I
really don't know General"—Captain Nada snorted at the use
of this title and the Warlord cast him a swift, frowning
glance—"Dixter all that well, but he and the Lady Maigrey
were friends—"

"An excellent
suggestion," Sagan answered gravely, "but I find her
ladyship's presence on this ship necessary. She has fought the
Corasians before. I value her advice. She will remain here—safely,
I assure you."

Dion opened his mouth
to argue, felt Maigrey's hand on his, and said instead, "Very
well, my lord."

"You will leave at
once, when this meeting is ended. There is no time to be lost.
Gentlemen, I have told you everything I can. If you have questions,
ask them now. All ships are to be rigged for silent running until the
battle begins. No ship-to-shore transmissions are to be either sent
or received. Communication between ourselves will be handled by
courier. The enemy can see us, there's no need to let him hear us, as
well. Oh, and by the way, Captain Nada, I'm afraid this means
President Robes will have to miss his daily reports. He'll be
annoyed, but then, this is war and we must all make our little
sacrifices."

By thy unfathom'd
gulfs of guile
. . . The lines of Byron's poem,
Manfred
,
came to her.

The officers looked at
each other, puzzled, not knowing what this meant. Nada knew. The
captain's eyes bulged with outrage; his choleric face was purple. He
sputtered, attempted to stare down the Warlord, to bluster his way
out. But as far as Nada was concerned, Sagan had sealed off all the
exits. The eyes, shadowed by the helm, ran their steel gaze right
through the wretched man. Nada slumped back in his chair. The purple
faded from his face, leaving it the color of the underbelly of a dead
fish.

The silence became
acutely uncomfortable. Admiral Aks, acting on a subtle cue, responded
with a question. Sagan replied and the conversation lapsed into
clarification and discussion of strategy and tactics. Dion, leaning
forward in his ehair, listened with eager, intense excitement.
Maigrey settled back and let her head hurt. Only when the talk
switched to spaceplanes, and in particular the Scimitar, did she pay
close attention. And then she had to be careful not to allow Sagan to
notice.

By that most seeming
virtuous eye
. . .

The meeting ended.
Chairs scraped, the officers were on their feet, some hoping to talk
further to the Warlord, others speaking into their commlinks,
commanding their shuttles to be readied. Captain Nada, without a word
to anyone, slunk out of the room. No one made any attempt to speak to
him. It was obvious to all of them that he was out of favor with the
Warlord. From now on, Nada was nothing.

Maigrey stood up. The
Warlord cast her a glance, commanding her to stay. She would have
liked to remind him that she, too, was a civilian, and therefore not
subject to his command, but she supposed that wasn't really true. She
couldn't remember a time when her life had been at peace. She'd seen
her first battle when she was five years old, perched on the back of
her father's horse. She was and always had been a warrior.

Maigrey started to sit
down, saw Dr. Giesk edging his way through the crowd toward her, and
hastily moved to join Dion, who was standing near the Warlord. Giesk
was, fortunately, captured by a captain who wanted to discuss a pain
he'd been suffering in his left side.

With practiced ease,
Sagan spoke with those who had legitimate questions and politely
dismissed those who merely wanted to insinuate themselves into his
notice. Maigrey lost track of the conversation. How did the rest of
the
Manfred
poem go?

By thy shut soul's
hypocrisy
. . .

Admiral Aks,
remembering his duties, recalled the more persistent questioners to
theirs and personally escorted them from the conference room. When
the three were alone, the Warlord turned to Dion.

"Your Scimitar is
being readied. Can you leave within the hour?"

"I can leave now,
this moment, my lord!"

Dion flamed with
eagerness, excitement. His eyes were on the Warlord. Maigrey
recognized the look of admiration in them; she'd seen it reflected
often in her own.

By the perfection of
thine art

Which pass'd for
human thine own heart
. . .

Sagan glanced at
Maigrey. It was nothing more than a glance, he said nothing, not even
in his thoughts. But she knew it for what it was—his trumpet
call of victory.

What was he plotting?
Dear God, what was he up to?

"I have had placed
in your spaceplane a complete report on the situation. I've provided
John Dixter with full information on the status of my fleet, on my
strength, numbers, everything. That should convince him, if nothing
else will, that I am to be trusted.

"A meeting between
Dixter and myself can be held on the planet's surface. Neither he nor
any of his people need come on board the ship. Should he be willing
to discuss my proposal, I am certain that the Lady Maigrey would be
pleased to take part in the final negotiations."

Sagan looked at her for
her approbation. What could she say? "Yes, of course, my lord."

By thy delight in
others' pain
. . .

"Do you have any
message for me to take General Dixter, my lady?" Dion turned;
his blue eyes were intense, enflamed.

"Perhaps Lady
Maigrey would prefer to give you her message in private," Sagan
suggested. His eyes burned with a darker fire.

And by thy
brotherhood of Cain
. . .

"That will not be
necessary, my lord. Dion, ask John— General Dixter—if he
recalls the human impersonator on Laskar."

Dion looked
disappointed. At his age, he'd been expecting Elizabeth Barrett
Browning. This message would tell John what he needed to know. As for
the other, it was too late for that. It always had been.

Maigrey was suddenly
extremely tired. "If you no longer need me, my lord—"

"No, my lady.
Thank you. Come, Dion. I'll walk you to your ship. I've had a few
modifications installed—"

I call upon thee!
and compel

Thyself to be thy
proper Hell!

Perhaps, after all,
she'd go back to the bar.

Here comes the prince.

William Shakespeare,
King Henry IV
, Part II, Act V, Scene 2

Bwaamp! Bwaamp! Bwaamp!

The blaring siren
blasted Tusk out of his hammock. Enemy alert! He dropped the mag he'd
been reading, stumbled forward, and fell over an empty bottle,
stubbing his toe. Swearing, he hopped across the deck. The plunge
from his quarters on the upper deck to the cockpit on the lower was a
harrowing experience, but he made it almost safely. His body acted
while his mind attempted to fight its way up from the fogs of
jump-juice and he was seated in his chair in the cockpit, flipping
switches and muttering commands, before it occurred to him that
something wasn't quite right.

For a base that was
under enemy attack, the night was remarkably peaceful and quiet.

"Hey! What the
hell's going on?" Bwaamp! Bwaamp! Bwaamp! "And shut that
damn thing off!"

The siren faded away
with a deathlike rattle in its throat. There was something wrong with
it. Tusk had always meant to fix it. but had just never gotten around
to it. He didn't really use it all that much, anyway. It was his own
private invention, to get him going in case of an emergency.

"Goddam it,"
Tusk swore, peering outside the viewport and seeing the other
spaceplanes in the encampment sitting dark and silent, their pilots
undoubtedly peacefully relaxing. "There had better be ten
thousand enemy fighters bearing down on us right now, XJ, or so help
me I'll drop a bomb on you myself!"

"There's no
attack," the computer stated.

"No attack! Then
what was this? Just a little test for my nervous system?"
Struggling to his feet, Tusk shook his fist at the blinking-eyed,
monkey-faced computer. "I'll tell you how my nervous system is!
It's shot to hell! My pulse rate's one-ninety! I think I'm having a
goddam heart attack!" The mercenary staggered across the deck
and over to the ladder. "I'm going back to bed."

"Dixter wants
you," XJ said.

"It can wait till
morning."

"This
is
morning. 0200 hours. And it can't wait. The kid's back."

Tusk had his foot on
the first rung of the ladder. The metal was cold on his bare flesh.
He paused, and in the silence he could hear his heart thumping in his
chest.

"The kid?" He
looked over at XJ. "Dion?"

"What is this, a
nursery? How many kids you think we got stashed around here? Yeah, of
course, Dion. He—"

But Tusk didn't listen,
didn't hear. Scrambling up the ladder, he hit the deck running,
dragged on a pair of jeans, stuck his feet into his sandals, hauled a
disreputable shirt over his head, plunged his head and face into a
sink full of cold water, and was up the ladder and out the hatch
before XJ could complete his harangue.

The computer, left
behind, comforted itself by replaying a vid tape it had just made of
Tusk leaping out of his hammock when the siren went off.

Tusk saw lights in the
general's trailer and quickened his pace. He knocked on the door,
barely waiting for a reply before he flung it open. A bleary-eyed
Bennett was brewing coffee.

"The general sent
for me?"

"In there."
Bennett nodded. "The general will be here in a moment." The
aide cast a stern and disdainful glance at Tusk's outfit. "
He
is dressing."

Even at two in the
morning, Bennett managed to look as if he could go on parade in the
next twenty seconds. His uniform was crisp, shoes polished, hair
combed. Tusk did note, however, that the aide had missed buttoning a
button, third from the top, on his shirt. Bennett wasn't infallible.
There was, after all, justice in the universe. Tusk shoved open the
door to the general's office.

"Kid!" he
cried, bounding into the room and preparing to fling his arms around
the boy.

Only it wasn't a boy
who stood facing him. Tusk stopped, staring, confused and uncertain.
He would have as soon flung his arms around an open flame.

Dion came forward, an
eager light in his blue eyes, to shake the mercenary's hand. "Tusk!
How are you? How's XJ?"

"Fine," Tusk
mumbled.

He eyed the young
man—the black and red-trimmed uniform, the sword on his hip.
The wild flame-gold mane of hair had been neatly trimmed and slicked
down.

Tusk pulled up a chair.
Dion resumed his seat. On his lap he held a slim metal case—the
type used for carrying important documents. Tusk recognized the
symbol that stood in raised relief on the outside of the case—a
phoenix, rising from flames. The mercenary crossed one leg over the
other, uncrossed it, scratched his head, and wished Dixter would get
here.

"You seen the
general, k— Dion?" he asked, after a moment.

"No. I just landed
a few minutes ago." The young man looked apologetic, glancing at
Tusk's disheveled appearance. The smell of jump-juice was strong in
the air. "Did I take you from a party? I hadn't expected it to
be the middle of the night. It was only the middle of the afternoon
when I left the ship. "

"Ship's time."
Tusk was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. "I wonder if that
coffee's ready yet." He stood up and started for the door, only
to fall back as it opened and General Dixter stepped through.

Tusk saluted, hand to
his forehead. Dion saluted, too, fist over his heart. Dixter looked
at the young man, noticing everything Tusk had noticed. He smiled
slightly, his eyes remaining grave.

"I'm not a Warlord
yet, Dion," he said.

The young man looked
startled, then, realizing what he'd done, he hastily relaxed his
salute and held out his right hand. "I'm sorry, sir. I guess I
got into the habit."

General Dixter took the
young man's hand, but he did not shake it. Instead, he turned it palm
up, to the light. The skin was marred by five red swollen marks.